


The Making of Diamonds

by alicewroteastory



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Shadow of the Tower, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicewroteastory/pseuds/alicewroteastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With her lover slain, Elizabeth of York must learn to adapt. She knows that she must marry the Lancastrian Pretender and seem happy about it, but Elizabeth had not anticipated her feelings for Henry Tudor, the enigmatic new King, and is surprised to find that he returns her desire. When torn between the ghosts of her past and the promise of a bright new future, Elizabeth knows that there is only one choice that she can make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Making of Diamonds

**Author's Note:**

> Begins as a slight alternate ending to "The Final Battle", Episode 10 of "The White Queen". Will follow through the coronation of Henry Tudor, the developing relationship between the new King and Elizabeth of York, the marriage, the children and the scandals. However, can be read without watching "TWQ". Written because I don't really like "The White Princess" novel - which was a huge disappointment for a lifelong Philippa Gregory worshipper - and wanted to change it.

**_Grafton Manor, Northamptonshire - 23rd August, 1585 ___**  


  
She could feel her hands shaking and she wanted to care that she was showing weakness in front of her lady mother – something that she had previously vowed never to do – but alas, she could not tear her attentions away from the barely legible words, hastily scribbled on a muddied piece of torn parchment. She shook her head; once, twice, and a third time, as if by some miracle she could, with the very power of her girlish and hopeful thoughts, change the contents of the message. There were fingerprints of blood dotted around the foreboding words like morbid decoration; it was perhaps gruesomely fitting that the communication of the defeat of the House of York was encased in a smattering of Lancastrian red. “No,” she heard herself say, and it was a denial, a disagreement, an utter disregard. “Please.”

  
The stifling August heat seemed to suddenly chill; wildly, she imagined that perhaps it was the ghostly final breaths of fallen soldiers upon her nape, and she shivered at the unbidden thought of her dear uncle Richard, stripped naked and hauled across a dirty horse, a dead man shamed before his defeated army.

  
Though she knew that it was folly to do so, she strained her ears, struggling to hear if the water Goddess Melusina – from which the Woodville women were apparently descended – was singing for Elizabeth’s lost love. Of course, there was no noise but that of her own making: her breath, sharp, fast, panicked. The unnatural cold settled on her skin like a winter frost; she felt her cheeks flush, and she knew that she was shivering, and yet all she could really concentrate on was the thudding of her pulse, the frantic beating of her heart.

  
Vaguely, she felt her mother’s hand upon her arm, and shrugged it off. She could not bear to be touched, not now. “Elizabeth? What is it?” Her mother’s voice was quietly alarmed, and Elizabeth was bothered by it. Her mother – the formidable Elizabeth Woodville, former Queen of England and the Lady Grey – was not easily unsettled. Elizabeth schooled her expression into one of cool indifference, but her mother was not fooled by the display.

  
There was a pressure in the crook of her elbow as her mother pulled her away from the gathered company of bloodied knights, calling back that little Anne should see them to the kitchens and ensure that they are fed and watered for their troubles, and led Elizabeth inside, out of the sun and into the safety of the drawing room, her sister Cecily following closely behind. Elizabeth Woodville did not speak until the door was shut tight; only then did she turn her questioning gaze upon her quaking eldest child.

  
Elizabeth of York stared blankly down at the parchment, her eyes wide, seeing nothing. “He is dead,” she whispered, “Uncle Richard is dead, his army spectacularly defeated at Bosworth; Henry Tudor has taken the crown.” The letter slipped from her grip, falling forgotten to the floor. The York Princess shook her head again, absolutely unwilling to accept this cruel truth even as her bottom lip began to tremble. “Richard is dead,” Elizabeth repeated, entirely disbelieving, “King Richard III, Duke of Gloucester, brother to our beloved father.... He is dead... And with him, I fear, my heart has also perished.”

  
Her sister Cecily inhaled sharply, reaching down to retrieve the message. “You will be the Queen,” she breathed, a tentative excitement creeping into her bright eyes. “Mother says... The betrothal...”

  
“Henry Tudor is a nothing,” Elizabeth replied emotionlessly, meeting her mother’s gaze without fear. “His claim to the throne is weak, pitiful, even. Uncle Richard was going to send for a dispensation... He was going to marry me... He promised...”

  
Their mother narrowed her eyes, gripping her daughter’s chin and roughly turning her head. “Do not speak of it,” she hissed, looking around as if afraid of witnesses, “Richard did not love you, Elizabeth. He sought to ruin you in the eyes of Henry Tudor, and perhaps will yet succeed, if you insist on speaking such.”

  
“He is thought to be very handsome,” Cecily murmured supportively, fiddling with the sleeve of her gown.

  
Elizabeth let out a breathy, disbelieving sob, whirling to glare at her younger sister. “How can I marry the man who has killed my true love? Richard promised to make me his wife... He swore that he cared for me, that he would honour me... And now, you expect me to transfer my affections and marry this Lancastrian pretender? To act as if that the love I shared with Richard never existed? I shall not. I am a Princess of York – I do not forget it.”

  
The elder Elizabeth sighed at her daughter’s shattered hopes. “You are too young to have known true love, Elizabeth; perhaps a childish passing fancy; a fleeting desire; a dream from whence you must now awaken; not love. Henry Tudor will love you – how could he not? You are the York heiress, and beautiful with it. He has every reason to be most grateful.”

  
“And what do you know of love?” Elizabeth cried at her mother, wrenching her arm away. “Papa betrayed you, mother! He had other women, other children. You speak as if you know what love is, but what do you know of freedom and pleasure and happiness?!” She heard her mother’s palm strike her cheek before she felt the sting of pain that accompanied it. She wanted to reach up and soothe her face, but she did not: instead, Elizabeth met her mother’s gaze fearlessly, for once thankful of her superior height. She looked down on her mother with pity – her father’s numerous infidelities were always a sore spot for her mother, even if she had never outwardly complained – and forced her tears to stop. What good were her bitter tears in the fight against fate?

  
Elizabeth Woodville straightened, grasping at the strands of her dignity, not bothering to acknowledge the ache in her hand. “Do not speak of your father such.”  


“I can’t marry him,” was her daughter’s stoic, sullen reply. She clenched her fists, relishing in the bite of pain when her nails cut into her palms at the sudden force. “I would sooner die.”

  
“He is the King,” Cecily pointed out in a soft voice, carefully smoothing out the crumpled letter and folding it, tucking it into her pocket. “Henry Tudor is the King, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes closed, her face twisting with sorrow. Her knees buckled and she fell gracelessly to the floor, swallowing thickly in an effort to will away her tears. “Mother, _please __...”_

  
“The betrothal stands,” Elizabeth Woodville replied harshly, turning away from her daughter. “And you will be Queen, as I was. You predicted it yourself, once.”

  
Elizabeth scoffed, wiping away her tears, altogether hating herself for allowing them to fall in the first place. “I did not _predict __it. I said I _feared __it.”__

  
The elder woman shook her head, pulling her daughter to her feet. “Do not be foolish. This is not the time to lose your head; think of us, think of your family. If you do not marry Henry Tudor, all of our hopes are lost. We shall be ruined, all of us; named as traitors and exiled, perhaps executed if Margaret Beaufort has anything to do with it. This is the only way.”

  
“Were I a braver woman, I would challenge his claim to the throne with my own,” the York Princess said softly, her tone sad, “Alas, I am not, and I fear that you – my beloved lady mother – will throw me to the mercy of that wretchedly fanatical woman and her Usurper son to satisfy your own ambition.” Seeing that her mother was going to protest, Elizabeth held up a hand to silence her. “Margaret Beaufort called me a whore. She accused me of cuckolding her son, of shaming myself before the court. Surely you do not expect me to be cordial to such a woman? She is to be my mother in law, should this marriage take place.”

  
Her mother faltered at this, hesitating a moment. “And there is truly no truth to the rumours of you and Richard?”

  
“Words and kisses,” Elizabeth whispered. Her memories of private audiences with Richard – few as they are – were bittersweet, painful, and they blossomed unbidden in her mind’s eye. Tears bloomed afresh in her eyes, and she reached up to wipe them away. “Promises of love: nothing more, nothing less.”

  
 “And Richard... he did not take improper liberties?”

  
Elizabeth frowned at her mother, shaking her head in disgust at the mere suggestion of such a thing. “Richard loved me, regardless of what you may think of his motives. I do not deny that I sometimes wished for more; in truth, on occasion I wept with the knowledge that Richard had a wife, and he was as troubled by it as I... But the King was faithful to the Queen, and I to my chastity. I am a maid still.”

“The Beaufort woman will have you examined,” her mother warned, “She will not allow him to marry you until it is certain that you do not carry Richard’s issue.”

“I tire of this,” Elizabeth replied wearily, “Richard did not bed me, lady mother. He was a devout Catholic and he cared too much for Anne’s feelings to hurt her so. He expressed his love for me, but it was a pure love, unsullied by sin. I was his companion... I reminded him of Papa, and he liked to watch me dance. He used to say that I had the best of both of you: your beauty, Papa’s charm; your cynicism, Papa’s hope; your ambition, Papa’s contentment. He was my greatest friend, for a time. I am not ashamed of it.”

Her mother sighed. “But the rumours...”

“And they are rumours only! Not truth! Not fact! Am I not a princess? Am I not the daughter of a King? Am I not to be a Queen? Am I not a woman?! By God, cease this questioning! I am well aware of the value of virtue!” Elizabeth threw up her hands and stalked away from her mother and sister, up to the sanctuary of her private chambers.

Tears brimmed in her tired eyes and she did not fight them, allowing them to fall freely down her cheeks now that she was sans an audience. Upon reaching her rooms, Elizabeth opened the door, pulling a face when her maids stood and curtsied. _Always so polite, __she thought bitingly, _the pretty little maids, dancing on command. __Elizabeth nodded her head at the door. “Leave me.” The women bowed again, eying one another with caution at their mistress’ unusual cool tone. They silently stepped out into the hallway, wincing when the door was slammed behind them. Elizabeth of York was usually a pleasant creature, always ready with a kind word or a smile, and so this uncharacteristic behaviour from her was troubling.__

  
“Whatever is the matter?” the youngest of the three murmured to the other two, her concern evident.

“I shall find out,” the eldest promised, disappearing down a staircase.

On the other side of the door, Elizabeth reached for her locket, gently opening it stroking the tip of her finger along the image of Richard’s face. “Goodbye, my love,” she whispered, “I will see you again.” Reaching up to unclasp the necklace, she gathered the chain in her hands, pressing it once against her heart.

With a deep sadness, Elizabeth closed the pendant, wrapping the chain around it. She stepped across the room to the jewellery box that had once belonged to her Grandmother Rivers. She flicked it open, pulling out the false bottom, the location of all of her secret treasures – though it was not so secret, because the same chest had belonged to her mother and there was not a lot that her mother did not know - and placed the locket carefully inside. “And thus I will lock you away and try to forget you were once mine,” Elizabeth said softly, unaware if she was speaking to her heart or to Richard’s memory.

She slowly unlaced her gown, taking her time with the elaborate knots. She was careful with this dress; it was one of her favourites, ice blue damask, and though she knew that she would never wear it again, she folded it carefully and placed it on her bed. The gown had been a favourite of Richard’s, indeed he had provided the silk for its creation, and it hurt her to think that he would never have another opportunity to see her wear it.

When she was dressed in only her linen shift, Elizabeth opened her chamber door again, permitting her maids re-entry, neither noticing or caring that they were two, now, instead of three. “Find my mourning clothes and pack away the rest. My uncle is defeated and Margaret Beaufort’s son has taken the throne. Henry Tudor or no, none can deny that Richard III was a good man, and I am sorry for his death.”

The maids exchanged glances, but did not dare to contradict her. Indeed, it was true that Elizabeth of York held her father’s volatile temper, as well as her mother’s icy capability for cruelty; it was not their wish to inspire such events.

They had all heard the rumours, of course they had. The tale of the innocent York Princess besotted with her traitorous Uncle Richard, suspected murderer of her brothers, the Princes in the Tower. Was this display of grief evidence that the rumours were true, they wondered? Was this the proof that Margaret Beaufort needed to dissolve Elizabeth’s betrothal to her son, Henry Tudor?

In any case, it was not their place to question Elizabeth, and so they dutifully did as she had asked, quietly removing her brightly coloured gowns from her large oak wardrobe and replacing them with drab – yet equally beautiful – simple dresses of black, charcoal grey, darkest blue. Were she a vainer woman, Elizabeth would have praised her own ability to wear almost any colour; she was most fortunate in her inheritated palate, unlike her one-time rival Anne Neville, sallow faced and mouse-haired. From the moment of her birth she had been afforded the love of the people, even being called London's Princess by the commonfolk, and her fair looks only further enflamed their devotion.

Elizabeth stood in a brooding silence, staring absently out of her window, wrapping and unwrapping one of her fair curls around a slim finger.

How was her life to be now, she questioned?

If, by some miracle, she was not to marry the King of England, where would her place be? If the Beaufort woman had her way, she knew that she would be declared a strumpet, and quite possibly dragged through the streets of London in her shift and whipped for her supposed illicit relations with Richard.

How was she to find it in her to love the new King? She wondered if she would be truly able to find the strength to bear him children, to provide him with stability and a steadfast ally. And then it dawned on her; it was not her choice. It never had been her choice. Her father had betrothed her in the cradle to the Dauphin, and though it had never come to fruition, Elizabeth knew that she would have dutifully obeyed and married whomever she was bid; she would have done it with a graceful smile, and been outwardly happy for it. She had not been blessed with the male gender, only her own, lesser one; had not been honoured with the option or illusion of having power over one’s fate. Such was the life of a Princess, and a woman.

As if to contradict her, her mother’s image swam before her eyes. Her mother, the widowed and seemingly fearless Lady Elizabeth Grey, had set out on a crisp spring morning to reacquire her deceased husband’s lands by means of pleading with the new King Edward IV for mercy. Instead, she had returned with a besotted monarch, and had been wed soon after.

Would her mother be permitted to return to court, if she was indeed to marry the Tudor?

How was she to act, now? Was she to play the part of a Princess of York, or that of a disgraced niece of a dead King?

Surely, she reflected, she could not be both.

Richard had long since had her parents’ marriage declared null and void, and Elizabeth and her siblings named illegitimate; she could not be a York princess if the new King agreed with Richard’s reasoning. It made her heart hurt to think that she could not be a princess if Richard was to be a recognised King. She was a Yorkist, a Plantagenet, a Woodville, a Rivers; her name and her inheritance was all she really had, but she thought the cost of Richard’s good name was far too high a price to pay for it.

Would Henry Tudor repeal the Titulus Regius, therefore reinstating Elizabeth as a princess of England? Undoubtedly he must do, Elizabeth mused, if he hoped for the genuine support of York.

“My lady?”

Elizabeth started at the sound, spinning around and sighing. “What is it?”

“Your mother has asked for you,” one of the maids replied cautiously, “Would you like to choose a gown to wear for dinner?”

“The black one with the high neckline and loose sleeves,” Elizabeth murmured, holding her arms aloft for them to slide the garment over her head. She shook her head at the offer of jewels to match her dress, instead selecting the plainest chain she owns; a gold crucifix that had once belonged to her father’s mother. It was a testament to Richard, she thought, that she was willing to wear his mother’s jewellery, considering how Cecily Neville had once acted towards her mother.

It was no secret that Cecily Neville had wholly disliked Edward IV’s choice of wife, openly showing her disdain on numerous occasions before an audience, and in turn her grandchildren were not fond of the Queen Mother. But Cecily Neville was long since dead, and though she had wept at her funeral, Elizabeth did not much mourn her passing.

She sighed and allowed the maids to dress her hair, encasing her honey and cinnamon curls in a net laced with pearls and golden thread, only vocally protesting when they tried to hook matching earrings into her lobes. “No,” she said quietly, “Just the crucifix.”  
 

...

When Elizabeth arrived downstairs, she was unsurprised to find that whilst her mother and siblings had also changed their attire into traditional mourning garb, the rooms had not been swathed in black. Apparently her mother was mourning the loss of the King and her brother-in-law on her own terms. The dining hall was darker, the candles dimmed out of respect of the dead, but there was no sorrow in the faces of her sisters, no grief in their expressions. Her remaining siblings were already assembled around the table; Cecily, beautiful Cecily, fifteen and dark haired like Uncle Richard; Anne, ten years of age and recently betrothed, fair and enigmatic, almost angelic in her innocence; Catherine, six years old and the double of their father; and Bridget, the baby of the family, only four years old – already quiet, reserved and solemn as opposed to the quick-witted brightness of the other royal children – and yet completely sure of her heart’s desire: little Bridget longed to become a nun, to retire from the courtly life that she had not yet experienced.

Her mother eyed Elizabeth’s attire warily, her gaze settling on the familiar necklace around her daughter’s neck. “That was your grandmother Cecily’s, yes?”  
Elizabeth nodded. “It was a gift from Uncle Richard, before the Queen died.”

At the mention of Anne Neville, Elizabeth Woodville’s face darkened. “I do not like to speak of that woman. She should never have been a Queen - she was a traitor.”

“She was a pawn in her father’s game,” Elizabeth replied, shrugging as she sat down at the table, “If Warwick was as bad as people say, then clearly Anne Neville had no choice in her marriage to Margaret of Anjou's son. She was used to cement an alliance, given to aid her father's purpose. She was victim to the wants of men, as all women are. ”

“You will not say that,” her mother warned with a frown, “It is not true. Your father was a good man and a good King before he died. And your brother should have been King after him, were it not for your beloved Uncle.”

“And yet, we would be destitute, were it not for uncle Richard’s kindness,” Elizabeth pointed out coolly, unfazed by her mother’s ire. Her sadness was making her bold; Elizabeth relished in feeling unaffected by her mother’s apparent disapproval. “I recall our Papa dragging the Duke of Somerset out of sanctuary and executing him for supporting Edward of Lancaster. It is strange that you seem so eager to slander uncle Richard, and yet, if memory serves, lady mother, he could have had you executed or exiled for treason on more than one occasion for your part in the numerous rebellions against him, but he was merciful and instead chose to _honour __your state of sanctuary. In some ways, Richard was more a moral man than my father."_

Elizabeth Woodville gazed at her daughter for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to challenge her, and let the subject lie. “You are to go to court in November, after the coronation. Apparently Lady Stanley deems three months long enough to determine whether or not you are with child.”

“Am I to go alone?” Elizabeth asked cautiously, taking a small sip from her wine and pushing her food around her plate, “I should not like to be without a friend in a court near-ruled by Margaret Stanley. She is almost frightening in her devotion to the Lord.”

“Your sisters Cecily and Anne will accompany you, as will your half-sisters Elizabeth Lumley and Grace Plantagenet.” As she voiced the latter two names, her mother’s nose wrinkled in distaste; Elizabeth Woodville may have turned a blind eye to Edward’s exploits with his mistresses, but it was right and proper that her daughter be attended upon by women that she could trust, especially in what was sure to be initially an unfriendly court. Who better, in this case, than her sisters? Family values had been instilled in all of Edwards IV’s children, and no sibling would dare betray another. Elizabeth Lumley and Grace Plantagenet were two of her late husband’s bastard children and were old enough to be at court with their legitimate half-sister, and Elizabeth Woodville was not one to dishonour royal children by ignoring their existence. “You shall have to find a place in your retinue for Elizabeth Lumley’s husband once you are arrived. She is unwilling to be away from him for long.”

Elizabeth smiled, then; she liked Elizabeth Lumley – affectionately nicknamed ‘Beth’ by the family – and Grace was the closest sibling to her in age, and so understood her perspective more than her other siblings. Nonetheless, Elizabeth knew how hard it was for her mother to acknowledge the children that are evidence of her husband’s infidelities, and so when she thanked her mother for recommending them, it was genuine: her half-sisters may have been conceived in sin, but they were her kin, and she loved them dearly. “I am glad. Thank you, mother.”

“You are to ensure that Anne’s betrothal to Thomas Howard stands,” Elizabeth Woodville continued, “He will be the Earl of Surrey, one day, and you will need friends in high places.”

“Especially when Margaret Beaufort starts spitting her poison everywhere,” the younger Elizabeth agreed, her disdain for the King’s Mother clear in her tone. Then, seeing little Anne’s expression of dismay, “Do not worry, Annie. You have met Lord Howard before, remember? He gave you a gold ring and a pretty gilt bracelet; you said you liked him. You will not have to marry him for a long time, you are far too young.”

Her mother nodded. “Anne is too young to be married, yet. We Yorkists do not follow the Lancastrian practice of marrying child brides to grown men. Margaret Beaufort was married and with child at the age of twelve, did you know that? Unbearably distasteful. In any case, it is my guess that the Howard boy will want to make a name for himself outside of his father’s coattails before they are wed, so perhaps that is for the best. You are to keep her in his thoughts, send gifts to him on her behalf at Christmastide and for his birthday.”

Cecily, forgotten betwixt her heiress sister and her ambitious mother, sighed, hating this talk of marriage when she was estranged from her own husband. “What of me, lady mother?”

“Your marriage to Ralph Scrope still stands, for the moment,” her mother conceded, “Though I cannot see the Tudor King maintaining it. It is my diplomatic guess that it will be annulled. It was not consummated, was it?”

Cecily blushed, bashfully lowering her gaze from her mother’s. Having been present at the births of all of her younger siblings, Cecily was no stranger to the marriage act. “No. I remain a maid. He thought me too young...”

“Then, yes, you will almost certainly be released from your vows and married at the King’s pleasure,” Elizabeth Woodville stated, pushing her plate away and turning to her eldest child. “We should ready your wardrobe; it must be fit for a Queen. I will summon the dressmakers in the morning. ‘Tis lucky your father secured your dowry and an allowance for your caravan of dresses before he died – this will be an expensive affair, make no mistake. You are one of the most handsomely dowered brides in all of Christendom; I would think. Apparent illegitimacy or no.”

“No doubt my dowry is one of the reasons Margaret Beaufort is still keen on my wedding to her sainted son,” Elizabeth muttered darkly, “She will soon realize the dire state of the royal coffers: Richard was worried about the kingdom’s finances... Too many wars and too few gold coins to fund them, I believe he once said.”

“There is little gold in England’s treasury because it is in the Rivers’ coffers,” her mother replied, her smile perhaps a little too sharp and too pleased to be innocent, “Your father saw to that, well enough, when he ennobled my siblings, and we still hold Anthony’s fortune, as well as my mother’s inheritance. You forget: you are descended from the royal family of Luxembourg.”

  
...


End file.
